Move Along
by InsanityTalisman
Summary: What do you do when your world, your life, is passing you by? Simply let it go, try to change, or allow someone else to step in and derail you? Reeve-centric. Slash & het. Pairings: RT/Y, slight RT/V, poss. V/Y or all three.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Contains slash and het. If you don't like that, you're in the wrong place.**

**A/N: Why first-person, present-tense? Because it's harder to write, I don't see it used much (yes, I realize there's a good reason for that), and I have come to **_**loathe**_** the omniscient feeling that I get while reading fiction where every single little detail, thought, and emotion of **_**all**_** the characters is spelled out… Where's the mystery?**

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Chapter One

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I stare out at the sea of happy people that surround me. A friendly smile is plastered on my face, and I nod politely at the right times as the youthful, gregarious woman beside me chatters away. I have not met her before tonight, I do not even remember her name, but she has seen fit to attach herself to my general whereabouts.

It hardly matters.

I feel out of place, lost in this cloying atmosphere of cheer and hope, and despite my best attempts I cannot shake the encroaching onset of desolation that claws at my chest, tightens my throat, and threatens to send me running from the room.

My gaze falls on a specific couple swaying together out on the dance floor and my mood lifts for the moment, my lips curving upwards in a genuine smile.

They are married, _finally_.

Cloud has a look of surprised bemusement on his face, as if he cannot believe he is really here, his new bride held firmly in his arms and staring up at him with open adoration in her eyes. It may sound cliché, but Tifa is almost literally glowing with her happiness, radiating it outwards so it seems to have a tangible property; she is stunningly beautiful and still would be even dressed in rags instead of the lovely wedding gown she is wearing now.

A pang strikes through my heart as I think of how I will never have what they do, that I seem destined to be alone.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I feel shame and something akin to hatred for myself, at my pathetic self-pitying and inability to just be _happy_ _for them_. I should be; they deserve it. In fact, I can think of almost no one who deserves love and for life to go their way more than those two.

Inexorably, my eyes begin scanning the shadowy corners and nooks of the cavernous room, and I wonder, not for the first time, why the newlywed Strifes have thrown such a large wedding and reception. A small, private ceremony in the Sector 5 Church is more along the lines of what I had expected. I would be willing to bet, though, that guilt, on Cloud's part, is one of the main reasons for the elaborate affair.

I shake my head at the silliness of that notion; Tifa would have been just as ecstatic with Cloud merely saying "I do."

"You don't think the water lilies compliment the tablecloths? Well, maybe birds of paradise would have…"

I mentally jolt as I realize that I have not been even half-listening to my companion for the evening, before allowing her words and pleasant voice to fade into background noise once more.

I finally spot the person I am looking for, who is, predictably, standing in the least populated dark section of the room, and I fight back a smirk at how uncomfortable he appears even while leaning casually against the wall.

"Excuse me," I interrupt the prattling woman currently delivering a monologue to no one, who seems surprised that I have spoken, "I need to discuss something with one of my employees."

I flash my charming, and usually fake, politician's smile at her and then stride away before she has a chance to respond.

After carefully moving through and around the crowd with some of the skillful maneuvers I have perfected for such occasions, I lean against an empty space of wall next to him in conscious mimicry.

He ignores me, but I am not bothered, not deterred. I simply use the fact that he is staring out and away from my direction to study his appearance.

It is something I have begun to do quite frequently.

There is no intent in my gaze, though. I am not delusional, and I admire him with the detached partiality of a lapsed art aficionado.

_Mostly_ detached; he is certainly a very beautiful man and the rare occurrence of him being without his usual attire is fascinating, causing my sight to sharpen as I run my eyes over him.

Just how tall and slender he is is made more prominent by the charcoal colored suit. He possesses a dancer's body, an assassin's body; his movements graceful and deadly. The most distinct difference is to his long, glossy, black hair, which is, for the only time I have ever witnessed, neatly combed and falling in jagged lines to the middle of his back.

I allow myself to briefly imagine touching him, but the concept is purposely vague and I dismiss the idea before it can fully form. I slowly slide my gaze from the shiny, uncomfortable-looking, dress shoes, up his figure, lingering on his thighs and chest, to his face.

I almost expect him to be staring back at me, my hand caught in the cookie jar, so to speak, but his attention is still focused on the delighted people, many obviously intoxicated, in front of us.

I begin my perusal of his profile before he does finally turn his head to acknowledge my presence.

Of course, there is no doubt that he has been aware of my scrutiny from the moment I entered his peripheral vision; perhaps ever since I discovered his hiding place and looked his way.

I often speculate as to what he thinks, as to whether his mind is overflowing with thoughts and contemplations, or silent and watchful with little coherence. I mentally kick myself. Or maybe just a normal mind with normal thoughts.

The implausibility of the last causes my lips to tilt up slightly at the corners even while my eyes narrow at the reason behind his inability for normalcy.

My transition from self-pity to pity is not welcome and I shove the feeling away with a viciousness I never show externally.

He is looking at me, his face expressionless, as usual, waiting for me to speak first, as usual. I feel a mild and rather immature desire to outwait him, so I merely return his stare, and then allow my sight to trace the minor flaws on his countenance.

They have captivated me from the first time I noticed them; a nose that would otherwise be perfectly proportioned, too long; a mouth, too wide; the lips, nicely shaped, but too thin.

All in all, he is an attractive man that is enhanced by his imperfections, both mentally and physically.

I raise my eyes back to the deep crimson of his own, noting his confusion, which is barely detectable, and curse myself for my forwardness, my flirtatiousness, and for consuming several more drinks past that of my usual limit.

"It is odd to see you without your cape on," I say, putting on my best guileless expression, which promptly turns to alarm as I realize how insensitive my words are. "Good! I mean you look very good, Vincent," I adjust quickly, and just as quickly regret how suggestive it sounds.

Fighting back a groan, I try my hardest to appear natural and unassuming while I pretend to watch the people before us, when my focus is on the man beside me and the silence stretching uncomfortably, for myself at least, between us.

The seconds tick off into minutes, and I debate whether to risk sticking my foot back in my mouth once more or to make a silent retreat. Apparently, being inebriated around Vincent is not a good idea, and I make a mental note to myself to avoid such a situation in the future.

"Thank you."

I jerk my head towards him, startled at the unexpected reply, my eyes wide.

"You're welcome," I respond automatically and search his face, which is blank and unreadable once more.

Feeling awkward, I riffle through my thoughts to try to find a suitable conversation topic; he is the only one I am ever at a loss for words around.

"Were you surprised that Cloud chose you for his best man?" I finally ask with genuine curiosity.

It had been a novel and amusing sight to watch him walk down the aisle with Yuffie, Tifa's maid of honor, on his arm. Vincent had presented himself as a stoical, elegant individual with flawless etiquette, while the young ninja was practically bouncing in her excitement, chattering animatedly at him until they were forced to part in order to observe the rest of the ceremony.

"Yes," Vincent pauses and glances at the floor, then back up to make eye contact as he continues, "I thought you were the more logical choice."

I chuckle softly and shake my head. "No, I… I'm fairly sure that Cloud is not very fond of me, and he identifies with you, with the experiences that you both have endured," I state casually and shrug, watching as two giggling women who are clutching on to each other collide with a table and nearly send themselves sprawling.

"Why do you think he does not like you?"

I shrug once more, a gesture I normally avoid, and tilt my head back to rest on the wall, before replying. "He believes that I use him. For the WRO, that is," I amend, "and he is not incorrect on that matter. I do. In fact, I use my connections to all the members of AVALANCHE to garner influence and positive regard from the public."

This has the feel of a drunken, but reasonably well-worded, confession and I wonder why I am telling this to the ex-Turk, when he is the least likely to care.

Perhaps that is exactly why he is the one I am speaking to about this.

I continue. "If something goes wrong, some catastrophe strikes, and the Planet is in danger, I call on all of you to fix it." I pause for a moment and close my eyes, uttering the next words nearly inaudibly, "Because I lack the strength to do so myself."

I open my eyes, turn my head, and fix my gaze on Vincent, who is watching me in that intense and unnerving manner with which he seems to treat everything, no matter how mundane. I fight the urge to fidget and take a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry, Vincent. I-" I break off immediately when I see him flinch; the response catching me off guard and derailing my train of thought. "Are you al-"

"Don't say that," he interrupts me, his voice harsh.

"Don't say what? I don't understand."

"Don't apologize."

"But you don't even know what I am apologizing for!" I exclaim, baffled by the exchange.

"It doesn't matter."

With that, and a parting glare, he pushes away from the wall and walks into the crowd, quickly blending in and then disappearing from sight.

Stunned and thoroughly confused by the abrupt departure, I stand motionless for several moments, and then bring a hand up to my forehead, rubbing at the hint of a headache in my temples.

"What in Gaia's name was that about?" I mutter to myself.

"What was what about?"

I jerk my hand away, revealing a grinning, flushed to the tips of her ears, shiny-eyed Yuffie.

A very intoxicated, and therefore, slightly more dangerous Yuffie; only slightly, because even sober she often misjudges her own strength. I have had numerous bruises in the past to prove it.

The "White Rose of Wutai" resembles her namesake more closely in her current apparel, a pearly kimono with delicate silver inlays, but with modifications to suit her personality; most notably, a slit on one side exposing the long, pale length of her leg from ankle to hip. Ostensibly, I keep my eyes safely above neck-level.

Although she has matured greatly since Meteor Fall, her emotions and objectives are still as transparent as glass, and I have begun to fear that she harbors some attraction for me. Normally, I would be flattered by such attention; perhaps even open to an attempt at a relationship, but with Yuffie there are many reasons why that would not be a good idea, aside from the physical danger.

The main one being the gunman that has just walked away; I refuse to be someone's second best, the person they settle for because they are unable to obtain who they really want, or as I think would be the case with Yuffie, the person to tide her over until she does finally catch Vincent.

I rather be single than cast away, discarded.

"Nothing of any importance, Yuffie," I reply. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

She issues that maniacal laughter of hers that suggests nefarious intentions and slips a hand into her dress, pulling out a liquor bottle and brandishing it at me.

"I'm having a wonderful time, Reevie! _Wonder_ful!" she emphasizes and brings the bottle to her lips, taking several gulps from it that leave her gasping for air. "Your turn!"

I jerk my head to the side, narrowly avoiding being hit as she thrusts the container at my jaw. "Yuffie!"

"Drink!" she insists, wagging it in front of my face, the dark liquid sloshing around inside.

With a half-hearted sigh, I reach for and take the proffered alcohol out from within her tightly curled fingers. I mime drinking and watch her from the corner of my eye. The deception works and she relaxes, glancing away momentarily. Lowering the bottle, I almost choke when she allows her body to fall forcibly against my side, the motion dislodging my arm and sending a portion of the potent liquid down my throat, the fumes burning up my nasal passages.

I sputter for a moment, clear my throat, and then glare down at the young woman who appears oblivious to my plight, merely snuggling in closer to my chest. Giving any reprimand up as a lost cause, I shift the bottle in my hand around until I can read the label and my eyebrows rise towards my hairline.

"Where did you get this?" I demand. "Cid?"

She giggles, the movement transferring due to her proximity, rattling my entire body, and shakes her head.

"Yuffie, this is not legal in Edge, or anywhere on the continent. Where did you get it?"

"Special occasion! I've had it for years, and I was saving it for something special." She tilts her head and stares up at me with a beguiling and deceptively innocent expression. "You'll drink it with me, right Reeve? Please? Say yes!"

I can feel my already weak defenses crumbling, but I wait for several seconds while directing a mock stern glare at her, which causes her to widen her flint tinted eyes to almost comical proportions. Eventually, I incline my head to show my acquiescence.

"Yes!" She draws back far enough from me to punch the air, right in front of my face, and I press myself closer to the wall behind us. "You are the greatest boss _ever_! I take back all those rumors I started about you!"

"Rumors?"

"That you're gay, and use Cait for- never mind," she pauses and gestures to the bottle. "C'mon, alcohol drinking time!"

I ignore the alcohol in my hand and focus on what she has just said.

"Yuffie," I begin slowly, "I am not gay, and Cait Sith's programming and abilities are strictly for reconnaissance purposes only. What did you tell everyone?"

"It was just a joke. I swear! Nobody _really_ believed any of it." She huffs angrily at a few stray bangs that have fallen onto her forehead. "Gawd! All I said was that you have it do creepy, stalkerish, kinky spying on people. That's it!"

"That's it," I echo and gaze out at the crowd. "You, my lead intelligence agent, told my staff that I am a sexual deviant, a voyeur."

"Well, when you put it that way, it does sound kind of bad."

My headache is now pounding at full strength, and I absently raise the liquor to my mouth and ingest a large enough amount to make me cough, my eyes water.

"Reeve?" Yuffie's voice is tentative and she reaches up to take a hold of my suit jacket, one hand above my heart, the other at my waist.

The sudden intimacy of the position startles me out of my scattered musings and I look down at her, thankful that she is as short as she is or I would be even more uncomfortable at this moment than I already am. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," she says, and her face is earnest.

I experience a strange sense of duality from recalling the stilted conversion I had had with Vincent just a few short minutes ago, and the role reversal that seems to be playing out now.

What an unusual evening this is turning out to be.

"It hardly matters," I repeat verbally the same sentiment I had been thinking earlier, and indeed, I feel as though I have come round full circle.

Yuffie's expression falters and changes to hurt, she is clearly misunderstanding the context of my words; that her apology does not matter.

"Rumors," I clarify, "do not matter. I have been considered a joke to everyone for as long as I care to remember; the gifted, but absent-minded engineer and the eccentric leader put into place by chance and luck."

"You're not a joke, Reeve!" she cries out, her tone high and dramatic, the pitch threatening to damage my hearing. "You're the best commissioner of _all time_!"

"I am the _only_ commissioner of all time," I respond dryly, in direct contrast to her frantic words.

Her nails dig into the grip she has on my chest and back hard enough to cause me to wince, and her eyes are frustrated and intense as they bore into my own.

"You know what I'm talking about, Tuesti," she nearly growls. "You are a good leader. For Leviathan's sake, stop playing dumb."

The rapid shift in both dynamics and mood is disturbing but unmistakably charged, and I attempt to remove myself from her embrace; conscious of all of the numerous strangers around us, as well as the impairment of my mind from the alcohol.

But I am no match for her strength, not even close, and my struggles prove useless as she slides one hand up my shoulder to the back of my neck, while the other is still firmly on my waist, effectively trapping me.

"Yuffie," I say in warning, of what I am not sure, as she rises up onto her toes and pulls me closer. "Stop."

"No," she murmurs against my mouth, and then seals off the thin gap left between us, to press her lips to mine.

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**E/N: Alright, not sure if I'll continue the fic, but I'll probably keep writing it. This is basically just a practice exercise for me; to see if I could get the characters down somewhat, and to try to improve on my description of actions and dialogue so they're smoother and more natural.**

**The entire process still feels like I am attempting to pull all of my teeth out, one by one, with a pair of pliers.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: A little bit of cursing, and, uh, friskiness.**

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Chapter Two

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The enthusiasm in Yuffie's kiss sends an undeniably erotic thrill through my body, and I can feel nearly every inch of her form pressed limberly against me.

All of me.

Her legs, quite possibly her best feature, long and shapely, come close to matching the length of my own, something that I had had no idea of until this moment. I am made more than aware of this fact, though, as she slightly alters her stance and immediately that expanse of skin so teasingly revealed by her kimono is now touching me through the lightweight fabric of my dress pants.

I inhale a sharp breath in response and she takes advantage of my parted lips to slip her wet tongue inside my mouth, pulling me even closer by the taut hold she has on my neck. With her other hand, the one splayed upon my lower back, she begins to caress up the dip of my spine, and the action draws an involuntary shudder from me, from the deepest parts that have gone such an agonizing amount of time without the touch of another.

But something is wrong, despite the pleasurable sensations, and the fog enshrouding my mind gradually starts to dissipate as I piece it together.

The young woman is eager, yes; pliant, certainly; confident, without a doubt, but there is a clumsiness, a lack of finesse to her movements that catches my attention and it takes me several seconds to place my finger on it.

Inexperience.

While my brain is still trying to reconnect, I cautiously stretch out my tongue to glide along hers, which is busy invading my mouth with all of the delicacy of a stampede of chocobos. Her grip on my neck is too tight, almost crushingly so, more of a fighter's hold than that of a lover's.

Her left, however, that is stroking and exploring at a leisurely pace, feels amazing and I lean as much as I am able into it. I am bereft of what to do with myself, with my own hands.

Thinking of my limbs seems to bring back my awareness of them, but not control, and the bottle of expensive, illegal liquor that is still clutched in my hand slips from my grasp to crash upon the floor in a tinkling shattering of glass. Simultaneously, several words that have been eluding me flash to the forefront of my mind.

Subordinate, half my age, Princess of Wutai, close friend, Vincent's, and most alarmingly, _virgin_.

With a rush of sound that is nearly excruciating and very shocking, my hearing, which I do not remember losing, returns.

And with the noise, consciousness of my surroundings; the loud unintelligible murmur of too many voices, the clinking of glass and dinnerware, the indistinct contemporary music that pulses throughout the room.

I am kissing Yuffie.

No, I am _making out_ with Yuffie.

In front of a large crowd of people, most of whom I do not know.

I reach my hands up to grasp her shoulders and attempt to pry her away; the effort proves futile and I then try to move myself back, only to come into contact with the wall, and Yuffie compensates by pushing her hip against my groin.

Unable to prevent it, I groan into our joined mouths and thrust forward, shivering at the friction that is created.

As the situation is clearly spiraling out of control, I briefly consider flailing my arms in the hopes that a bystander will notice and remove the ardent ninja from my person, but before I can enact the feeble plan I find myself being drawn back into the kiss.

Her advances gentle following the initial rush and she relaxes the hand clasping my neck, on which I can already feel the soreness of bruising developing, but the cessation of acute pain works to wonderful effect.

Just as my reason is shut away and I begin to reciprocate, she withdraws with a parting tug on my bottom lip, her small chest heaving against my own with quick, panting breaths. Her delicately featured face stares up at me with heavy-lidded, stormy eyes, her cheeks suffused with blood and turned a dark pink, and her lips half-parted and swollen.

I do not believe I have ever seen Yuffie appear so lovely, not even when her vitality radiates from her so blindingly in the heat of battle.

"You are very beautiful, Yuffie," I whisper carelessly, and instantly regret my tendency towards automatic compliments.

It is the wrong thing to say, and I barely have time to raise my arms in defense as she practically throws herself at me; had she been more than a few inches away, the results would have been damaging. As it is, I manage to place my right hand over her mouth before it reaches mine, and instead, my knuckles strike painfully against my face.

Irritation starts to well up inside of me, overriding my confusion and surprise, at being assaulted in such a manner.

"That is enough, Yuffie," I state firmly. "Your behavior is highly inappropriate."

She attempts to speak but her words are muffled by my hand, her lips brushing lightly against my palm, and I hesitantly remove it and allow my arm to drop to my side.

"Why?" she questions once she is able, her tone petulant, and then gives me a significant and unnervingly mature look. "You liked it."

The simple declaration, and the realization that she could currently _feel_ exactly how much my body had enjoyed her ministrations, causes heat to rise up through me, and I try to fight off the unusual impulse to blush.

I fail, and the embarrassment helps to calm and dampen any ardor I am experiencing. I welcome the sobering result.

"That does not matter. _Please_," I stress, "let go of me."

Obviously offended, she removes her hands and takes an unsteady step back.

My relief at her actions is jarring and clearly indicative of how wrong this entire incident is.

"What the hell is going on here?" a rough, familiar voice demands suddenly.

I jump guiltily, having been completely unaware of the approach of the volatile aviator due to my unwavering focus on the young woman in front of me.

I turn slightly in order to face the man, who is clean-shaven for once, but whose black suit is now rumpled, missing the tie, the jacket and shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, and the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. Of course, there is a cigarette dangling from his mouth, unlit, and another tucked behind an ear.

"You fucking cradle-robbing, Tuesti?" he asks and narrows his blue eyes into a squinting, threatening glare.

"Cid…" I begin, unsure of what I intend to say, but fortunately, or unfortunately, Yuffie has no such problem.

"Shut your mouth, old man!" she yells as she rounds on him, hands balling into fists and placed on her hips in indignation.

"Old man? He's fucking older than I am, brat!" the pilot responds, his angry gaze shifting to her, while jabbing a thumb in my direction.

"So what? You're not my father, Highwind, and it's none of your business who I screw!"

"Screw? You're-"

"Yuffie! Cid! Calm down!" I attempt to catch their attention, but they both ignore me.

"-having sex with a guy old enough to _be_ your father? Not to mention your goddamn boss!" he exclaims and moves closer to Yuffie, who mirrors him until they are not even a foot apart.

There is excited murmuring, and I glance about to notice numerous spectators gathering at a safe distance around us, attracted by the heated and scandalous argument between two of the Planet's most famous inhabitants. My eyes catch sight of and track a tall, dark, hulking figure making his way through the throng, his massive shoulders pushing people away with ease.

Barret comes to a stop in front of the others and surveys the situation with a bad-tempered expression.

"I'm not a child, and I can have sex with whoever I want!" Yuffie retorts, discrediting her claim of maturity with immature wording.

"Like hell you can! If you don't have enough fucking sense to-"

"Both of ya shut your damn mouths!" the large man thunders, the sheer volume startling and silencing Cid and Yuffie, who swivel their heads to stare at him, dumbfounded. Seeing that he has their interest, he continues is a low, grumbling, hiss, "This is Tifa's _wedding_ day, and no one, _no one_, is gonna mess it up. I don't know, and don't care, what this is about, but it stops now. Got it?"

His mechanical, prosthetic hand has changed into the multi-barreled mini-gun, and he absently fiddles with the trigger while his disapproving glare swings from one offender to the other.

And then settles on myself, as though I am somehow the cause behind the fight, and I widen my eyes at him in response, feeling vaguely alarmed at being the recipient of such an intimidating stare.

The mountainous man has never fully forgiven me for my involvement in the kidnapping of his daughter years ago, nor the fact that I was once a ShinRa employee. I do not think he knows that I designed both the city of Midgar and the reactors which helped to nearly destroy the Planet, and it is not something I ever plan to inform him of.

"Of course, it was simply a misunderstanding," I say in acknowledgment.

There is a long stretch of silence as he holds my gaze, before he nods and the tension in his posture eases while the mechanisms in his gun whirl, morphing it back into a metal hand.

"What happened? Is everything alright, guys?" Tifa emerges from the crowd, looking concerned, with Cloud close on her heels, looking annoyed.

"Everything is fine, Tifa," I reassure her smoothly and take a step around Cid, presenting her with a charismatic smile.

She does not appear reassured, and a small frown crinkles her brow as she studies each one of us in turn.

"Just fucking peachy, girl, so don't worry about it," Cid remarks and fidgets with his smoke.

"Everything's okay. Too much alcohol, that's all!" pipes Yuffie, who beams at the newly married woman and laughs a bit nervously.

"I took care of it. Bunch of damn idiots, the lot of 'em," Barret adds, earning glares from the pilot, ninja, and martial artist.

"Barret!" Tifa admonishes, "Don't say mean things like that!"

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he responds good-naturedly with a grin that lessens the harsh lines of his face, more than familiar with this common exchange.

She continues to stare at him with mild reproach for several seconds, then smiles and turns towards Yuffie.

"I'm going to throw the bouquet soon," she informs the younger woman excitedly, holding up the brightly colored, white and yellow flowers she has grasped in her hand. "Are you gonna try to catch it?"

"Try?" Yuffie exclaims, her pride wounded, "Those overgrown weeds are as good as mine!"

Tifa giggles, bringing her free hand up to cover her mouth; her large, wine-hued eyes dancing with the movement. Her beauty and happiness is breathtaking to behold, and I glance at Cloud, who looks like he has been struck and is staring at his wife as though he is lost.

In love, I mentally correct myself, and avert my gaze. I know I should be in high spirits at the concept, but all I feel is minor despair and dim panic.

"Well, come on, let's see if you can," she teases, and Yuffie issues an odd squawking noise in affront at the slight. "Everybody else is coming to watch, right?"

There are mumbles or nods of assent from all of us and Tifa appears satisfied, maneuvering around in the excess fabric of her dress and walking gracefully in the direction of where, I assume, she will be throwing the bouquet.

We all follow in her wake, the group of guests that had been bunched together beginning to disband, and I attempt to hang back from the others, but Cid also slows his pace until he is ambling along beside me. The look I receive from the other man is not friendly, but he does not say anything, and neither do I.

Arriving at the edge of the dance floor, I join the loose perimeter made up predominately of men, many of whom seem apprehensive, some enthusiastic, and even a few that look to be placing bets with one another.

"Fifty gil on Yuffie?" I ask Cid jokingly.

He merely glares at me and lights his cigarette, takes a deep puff and then blows the smoke into my face. I cough and wave a hand in front of me to disperse it. Deciding to disregard the rude gesture, I focus my attention on the large gathering of women in front of the stage, which contains the abandoned instruments that had been used by the band earlier in the evening, the DJ stand, and Tifa, who is clutching the flowers in both hands close to her chest.

"Ready?" she inquires in a raised voice, her eyes sparkling in the glare cast by the bright overhead lights.

A chorus of "Yes!" answers her, and she spins around, quite a feat in what she is presently wearing, pauses, and then tosses the bouquet over her head.

Bedlam results in various screeches, curses, and screams. I have difficulty following the hapless bundle of flowers' path as it bounces off of outstretched hands, and numerous times it is forcefully removed from someone's grasp as they are attacked by another.

I am greatly relieved that my gender renders me incapable of partaking in such a barbaric and archaic tradition.

At last, one small woman stands triumphant among the others, raising the disarrayed bouquet above her head like a weapon, and surprisingly, it is Shelke.

There is a genuine smile on her face, at odds with her normally reserved nature, before she is tackled to the ground by Yuffie.

I wince in empathy at the impact and shake my head at the ninja's antics, not astonished in the least.

Sitting astride Shelke, who is laid out flat on her back, Yuffie mimics the other woman's actions from a few seconds ago and thrusts the flowers high into the air in victory, grinning madly.

The occupants of the room explode into raucous applause that I choose not to participate in.

I watch as Yuffie's eyes scan the audience quickly and then come to rest on me. Her grin widens even further and the look she sends in my direction is almost enough to stop my heart; it does pause alarmingly for a moment.

A jolt of fear washes over my body.

She should not be looking at me that way; not Yuffie.

The desire to flee is nearly overwhelming and I break eye contact, hurriedly turning and beginning to walk away, but a rough grip on my arm prevents me from doing so. I jerk my head sharply to the side to scowl at Cid.

"Where the hell are you going? We need to talk," he states, a fresh cigarette bobbing from his lips.

"No, Cid, no we do not," I snap, my fear being channeled into anger, and he draws back in surprise. "Yuffie was right; it really is none of your business."

I pull my arm free from his slackened grasp, paying no mind to how he is now gawking at me, and set about finding a way out of the building; I desperately need air.

Dodging around people with less poise than I had shown earlier due to my lack of concentration, it takes me a few minutes to discover a recessed door with a glowing "Exit" sign set into the wall above it.

I sigh in relief as it opens when I push on the handle, and I step out into the pleasurably cool, refreshing night, shutting the door carefully behind me.

I lean back against the barrier and close my eyes, waiting for my sight to adjust to the darkness. Breathing deeply, I appreciate the solitude and strive for control of my emotions and thoughts.

Yuffie had been holding a wedding bouquet and staring at me like _that_.

I find myself unable to give a name to what _that_ had seemed to be, even inside of my own mind, and just the recollection causes a pang of trepidation to travel through me. I shake my head, rattling it unpleasantly on the hard surface of the door.

Ludicrous; it had only happened because of the intensity of the moment, from the adrenaline brought about by the struggle for the flowers. Why anyone would want to fight for such an object is beyond my ability to comprehend.

Feeling properly convinced, I open my eyes and stare into the dimness of what appears to be an alleyway and directly at Vincent, who is standing merely a couple of feet away right in front of me.

I make a soft sound in the back of my throat at the shock of his unexpected presence; the noise is unhappy and pained, and I hazily wonder how much more I can handle tonight before I simply have the heart attack that my physician has warned me about on many occasions.

"Vincent," I greet, and find nothing more to add, my heart pounding disconcertingly fast for a number of beats before returning to a steady tempo.

He does not move, does not even seem to breathe; only watches me, and I watch him in return, following the play of shadows on his enigmatic face.

"Lovely night," I finally speak, uncomfortable with silence unless I am alone.

He doesn't respond in any way, and I feel frustration claw at me for not knowing what he wants or how to react around him. He destroys my center of composure without even trying, and this is not his fault, it is my own.

"I can't deal with this right now," I murmur, more to myself than to Vincent.

"Deal with what?" he asks with no inflection to his tone.

"You," I answer, unthinkingly, honestly.

His expression remains the same, but I still open my mouth and then close it again, intending to apologize until I remember his negative reaction from before, leaving me unsure of what to say.

"How do you feel about Yuffie, Vincent?" I question, catching myself off guard as my vocal cords do not seem to be connected to my brain, operating independently.

"Yuffie?" Confusion sweeps over his expression. "What do you mean?"

"How do you feel about her?" I repeat.

There is no sound as the seconds tick by and a serene breeze stirs his locks of gleaming hair, which I trace with my eyes as I wait.

When no reply seems forthcoming, I risk prodding the stubborn, dangerous man for one.

"If you have any romantic feelings towards her at all, and you do not act soon, you will lose her."

* * *

**EN: This is really not going as I had planned. Yes, I had a plan… vaguely.**


End file.
